


How Mercy Looks From Here

by Misterkingdom



Series: How Mercy Looks From Here [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman - Fandom, Batman: The Animated Series, DCU
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Captivity, Earth-3, Imprisonment, Light Bondage, M/M, Mirror Universe, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1740950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misterkingdom/pseuds/Misterkingdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t care.” Dick sinks back into the lawn chair. “And I’m not letting you go.”</p><p>Bruce squints his eyes. “Robin—“</p><p>“Because I hate you.” Because I love you.</p><p>To his credit, Bruce doesn’t ask why. He can obviously see it written in the knot of scars littering most of Dick's body. In the limp in the way he walks. In the missing molar when Dick smiles too wide. The burning hatred and desire for Owlman is strong enough to override his senses and bleed into other universes. His head is telling him this is batman, an innocent who never laid a finger on him. Who probably raised him like father’s should somewhere over the rainbow. His trick heart tells him it’s Owlman. The man who just three days ago broke all of Dick’s fingers to test a new healing agent. The man he’d spied on in the shower last weekend.</p><p>“I’m going to be punished for sins I didn’t commit.”</p><p>Dick smirks, fingernails cutting into the flesh of his palm. “The shoe fits, doesn’t it?”<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Twilight Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> This is a snippet from my failed mirror-verse fanfiction, 'How Mercy Looks from Here'. I'll be salvaging it for the parts I like and posting shards from it periodically.
> 
> (This is the first chapter of my AU Fic. I really fucking like it. Why the hell did I fail at his? ;_;)

 

The halo of lights protecting Gotham City is dim in preparation for Ultraman’s latest subliminal message. The fog descends upon the city of shadows, rubbing it into a cold glaucoma ridden haze. The wind smacking against the empty rooftops are the only noises snapping the silence, not counting the solidary gasp of a soul too ignorant to escape into the artificial light.

A gust cuts across the exposed flesh of Talon’s face. Red blood rushes to his cheeks giving him the imitation of life. He slides across the slick rooftops, coming to a short stop when a shadow swallows the moon. A mechanical monster of modern engineering hovers above him as silent as a hummingbird. It makes a quick circular motion that should be too much to compensate for its mammoth size. Ultraman’s blimps are whisper quiet, just emitting sharp sonars that throb like a pulse. Its yellow eyes search the festering rooftops and grim soaked alleys.

Talon slinks behind a congested air vent as the harsh white light glosses over him. It lingers there like it knows he’s there, like its waiting to beam him up. The world is deaf, he’s as still as a corpse. The searchlight drags away, plunging the world into its familiar darkness. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.

Ultraman has no use for a Talon. The superhuman psycho just has a habit of breaking Owlman’s toys to see him flinch. Owlman doesn’t care what happens to his Talons—he just doesn’t like people touching his things. They’re two sides of the same gutter penny.

Talon crawls out from the vent in time to see a splash of something smeared across the blinding screen on the tail end of the blimp. A Rorschach test—a bat by the looks of it. There’s a kick in his stomach. He can’t help the smirk sliding on his face. The messiah of another world has arrived.

The headset beeps.

“Owlman wants us to find him—before Ultraman does.” Tim Drake drones from the communicator. The device causes Tim’s voice to be tinny and faraway. It does nothing to offset the boy’s naturally lobotomized tone. The kid’s trance like voice stopped unnerving him when he broke Dick’s arm in two places at only twelve years old.

“So we kill him or—?”

“No. Owlman wants to talk to him first.” Talk. Talk of bone shards, misplaced limbs and fruit rotten bruises. The prophet will be nothing but soft lumps of quivering flesh when Owlman gets done with him. His interrogations—torture sessions—were more final than death.

“Gotcha.” He bent his neck until something popped. It’s going to be a never ending night. “Talon out—“

“You look good tonight.” Tim sounded like someone had to twist it out of him. Dick licked his flakey lips, fighting a smirk. Tim’s flat tone never changes— though there are certain, sultry anchors downing select adjectives.

It wouldn’t be Tim if he didn’t try every couple of hours.

“I know.” Dick kills the headset before he can retort. Little Timothy John Drake—seventeen with a body count to rival his age. With gravestone grey eyes, an ever present frown that looks sliced open with a knife and clown white skin knotted with scars running almost as deep as his psychological problems.

He’s a razor blade—sharp and dangerous if you don’t know how to handle him. It’s an open secret within the family Tim caused the Technicolor bruises littering Stephanie’s thin white body at the time of her death. They have their suspicions Tamara’s newest mauve eye isn’t because she’s clumsy.

Tim’s no ordinary cutthroat. He has plans, ambitions to take over the throne. Over Owlman’s stiff corpse no doubt.  His single minded determination borders on obsession and makes him anything but predictable. Dick’s not going to fall into his chasm of horrors. The boy probably wants him because he fights.

The warehouse is just low enough to drop down onto. From there he free falls into toward the wet concrete, the ever present dream of just allowing himself to plummet into the concrete and embrace nothingness is humming around his head like an earworm. He pulls up before he reaches the point of black eternity. He scales the side of the building until he’s at the docks.

The city below him breathes gun smoke and disease. The buildings are twisted branches of the same tree, its roots stuck deep below the concrete until they reach the skeletons of the colonial thieves and the Native Americans they slaughtered. A blunt reminder its always been wicked and always will be.

The city laughs every time Dick ignores a scream in the night. The city dares him to spill Owlman’s blood when the man turns his back to him. It tells him he should take the crimson covered throne for himself. He’s too much of a coward.

Three hours of scaling rooftops, wandering through alleyways and updating freak boy on his every move. He’s about to thrown in the towel—secretly of course. He can always pad his hours when talking to Owlman— when the old rule about finding something when you’re not looking for it rings true.    

A shadow sticks to the darkness, illuminated by the diamonds of harbor lights. The phantom makes a quick turn, all but diving into a forgotten boathouse. Dick takes a deep breath, almost hoping it was a trick of too long nights. Even if it isn’t, it could be an assassin out for his head. A sigh leaves his body without his permission as his feet pick up—he’s destined to follow.

He employs the technique the apparition did before him, sticking to the shadows like a second skin until he gets to the boathouse door. The door is wilted off its hedges. He’s glad his gauntlets are for more than looking badass. The splintered mess of wood crumbles beneath his palm, cracking just enough for him to slide in. His visor flickers on with a high pitched whine, bathing the room in an alien blue glow. The farther he gets into the boat, the more every step he takes has prominence. His stomach flips—he was never good with water. The blank anonymously of the boathouse was enough to make a Motel 6 jealous. The only furniture is a dusty workbench and a few basic paintings askew on the wall. There’s a hole to hell where the floorboards have broken in the middle of the room. The black waves lap up at him.

This room is empty. The second room is another portal. He takes the steps forward with glass in his stomach. Despite being raised in the dark, he’s always cowered from it. He was the white sheep of the Owl family.

Something blunt slams upon his shoulders, almost sending him face first into the open hellhole in the ground. Dick catches himself with his hands and steadies himself with his knees. His eyes pinch with salt as the overpowering taste of the sea sticks on his tongue.

“Stay down.” The voice is as deep as a chasm. It commands the universe to stand and take notice. He has Dick’s twitching attention—though there couldn’t be a worst time. His voice, though deep with the absolution of all, is weighted down with the gritty burn of exhaustion. His ragged breathing clues in his physical state (prognosis, not good). Dick leans up a little farther from the waterhole and takes a stance that must look like a drunken party girl puking her guts out.

“Found you, amigo.” Dick said.

The bat’s voice hitches like Dick had stolen all his air. Dick has a half formed idea of why. Before he could taunt him about it, the bat’s back to giving commands. “Turn around.” Dick does without question, sliding down the barnacle encrusted floorboards to avoid the gaping hole to hades. He puts his hands up in surrender once he’s away from the hole and rests his head on the wet floor. He meets a figure cloaked in black like death himself. The only flesh showing is the firm line of his mouth. It twitches when he drinks Dick in.

“Look familiar?” There’s another Dick Grayson walking around somewhere, awaiting the return of his master. There’s also a lighter Tim—one without a death fetish. There’s a Stephanie, a Jason and a Damian—all alive and happy. Dick’s heard the rumors about the other side of the looking glass. How much do they look alike? The bat looks like he’s going to add to the grime of the seadog floor.

“Be quiet.” The bat points the rotted wood to Dick’s chest, the man’s own rising rapidly. Batman’s left knee is out of true and the ankle on the same leg is swollen. His left arm is bent at the wrong angle. From his posture, there looks to be some rib damage.

The bat is watching him through the screen of white lenses—a thousand times more personable than Owlman’s goggles. Dick can only see his beaten reflection staring at him in those. He doesn’t have Talon’s, just thick gloves.

“What are you going to do with me?” Dick mock whispered. He smirks, aware of the implications in his voice.

The bat’s mouth tightens and he raises the bar to strike. Dick kicks out, catching the bat’s ankle and sending him sprawling onto his back. The thick thud of soggy wood echo’s through the structure as the boat threatens to capsize. Dick’s standing above the bat in no time, his foot pressed against the bat’s swollen knee. The man’s breathing is as loud as gunshots in the empty boat. He doesn’t show any sign of distress. He watches Dick like he’s little more than an annoyance. Dick likes that.

“Time to see the big guy.” He eases the pressure on the bat’s knee though he keeps his foot there as a warning. The bat takes the hint and doesn’t move. Dick can hear the tick, tick, tick of the man’s brain going into overdrive searching for weakness. He won’t find any.

“Owlman.” It’s a statement. Dick nods as the bat moves like his body’s made of led. The bat pulls himself to his elbows. “Your master.”

The testy weight of his voice combined with the scowl makes Dick’s stomach sink. He takes his foot of the man’s knee and bends down. He traces the visible jawline causing the man to twitch. Dick undoes the shock waiting for him if he tried to rip the cowl off—Owlman has the same thing. He grins when the man’s pulse picks up beneath his fingers. He replaces his foot for good measure before the stripping the cowl off.

His stomach recoils and he swallows a gasp. This is everything he expected but he’s not ready for the lump in his throat or his heart pounding so loud in his ears, it drowns out his breathing. Despite the bitter night, he still pours sweat, his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth—

It’s Owlman.

 


	2. East of Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter to my failed mirror verse fic 'How Mercy Looks From Here'. :/

 

 _It’s Batman_. Dick repeats this to himself like a mantra. He breathes in the way Roy taught him to, who in turned learned it from some monk he’s screwing. His breath won’t stay in his lungs. His body cramps like he’s being crushed in a hot, wet fist. The bat is looking at him, trying to gauge his threat level while playing the part of a cool cucumber. The small twitch in the corner of his lips gives him away. The bat is afraid of him.

Dick crushes his heel on the bat’s knee, relishing the sharp grunt. “Alright, here’s the thing—“Dick starts before kicking the man in the chin. The bat slumps over on to the soggy floor, knocked out cold.

Dick drives to his shelter with his stomach knotted like a fist. The pearls of light twinkling above the harbor behind the black poles of buildings are the only thing behind him. In the future direction, it’s all trees and translucent rivers cutting through the hills—a touch of Eden the Sodom of Gotham City hadn’t spilled into. Dick breathes in the crisp, wind of the morn like he couldn’t in the purgatory air of the city. Ribbons of pinks and gold announce the arrival of the sun.

He hoists the led body of ~~Owlman~~ Batman into the shack waiting at the foot of a dead, twisted oak. The decaying floor of the dwelling complains under their combined weight. Dick moves through the dark by muscle memory until he finds the cardboard like welcome mat covering the corner of the floor. He pulls it up, revealing a hole. He climbs into the cellar of the dwelling until his feet rests on linoleum.

Dick discovered this place the third time he’d run away from Owlman. He was on the cusp of adolescence and his ankle was crushed. He’d made it far in spite of that.  His plan was to get to Metropolis and meet his aunt, but he was already miles in another direction before it dawned on him.

He’d fallen through the ancient floor until he hit concrete. The buzzing of white, harsh lights flooded the dwelling as it was motion detected. It was a big place with a kitchen/living quarters combo, a bathroom and another room hidden behind a velvet curtain.

Dick paid attention in history. It was a hideaway built out of paranoia in the shadow of the Cold War.

Dick lived like a Peter Pan for two days. On third night, an earthquake of noise shook the weary dwelling. He scrambled to the real world to find a luminescent spotlight blotting out the moon as the gust almost blew him away. Owlman’s Blackhawk.

Dick surrendered without a fight. He would forever be grateful Owlman didn’t search his haven.

He clicks the beaded rope. The dwelling buzzed to life, shrouded in a white, harsh light. He reassures his grip on the bat and takes him to the backroom, which he has converted into a safe room complete with a steel door and print recognition tech.

It takes him fifteen minutes to remove the rest of the man’s armor. There’s absolutely no reason to remove his undershirt, but Dick is a man possessed. Once he saw a sliver of the man’s wan flesh—it was like he caught a glimpse of the universe and needed to see more. His skin is marred with stories of violent justice and patchy tanning lotion. Unlike Owlman’s whose skin is just a tally of people he failed to kill.

Dick cuffs the Bat’s arms and legs down to the bed. He’s aware of his fingers loitering on the Bat’s inner thighs. His rolling muscles lax and so forgiving under his touch. He trails his hands up to the little trail of hair leading to his leggings.

He runs his hand through his own sweat marinated hair. Slideshows of twisty, sticky, sweaty ideas run through his head. All starring his new prisoner. He leaves the room before he can act on them and turns on his communicator.

“Talon reporting in.” He said watching the mosaic of water stairs above his head.

“Nighthawk reads you.” Tim says, sounding breathless. Dick doesn’t want to think about what he’s doing. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Dick smiles in spite of himself. “No sign of the bat, vulture.”

Dick could hear Tim biting back the urge to scold him for not using his correct handle. “Fine. When will you be returning?”

“Not tonight, vulture.” Dick smirks. “Tell Owlman I’ll come back before sundown.”

“He won’t be happy about that.” Tim is probably stimming. Dick has seen him do it when he’s irritated but trying to mask behind a veil of indifference. “Funny guy.” There’s a beep signifying a channel cut. _Prick_.

Dick places his communicator next to the rabbit ears on the worn television set. It screeches with interference.

He leaves a trail of his armor leading to the dingy, compact kitchen. He tinkers with the coffeepot until he gets the worn machine to give it up to him. The steady drops of liquid pound drums in the yawning stillness of his sanctuary.  The liquid beats in time with his migraine until he’s forced to slink into the foldout chair next to the card table masquerading as a kitchen island.  His muscles ache with the weight of past deeds as the adrenalin pumps its way out of his body. The night catches him as the sun rises. He closes his eyes against the dirty light of his kitchen.

Dick is awakened from his micro nap by steady tapping. He grabs Owlman’s robe and heads for the bedroom, wiping the crusty spit off his chin. He jabs in the code and the door slides open on a snake’s hiss. Batman is sitting in the middle of the bed, ice eyes looking through him. Red marks Dick didn’t make circle the bat’s wrist like bracelets.

“Mornin.” Dick sips the bitter-charred coffee. Batman eyes narrow. To a stranger, he’d be as cool as a cucumber. To Dick, he may as well be sobbing. It’s good to know Dick’s appearance bothers him as much as the bat’s bother’s Dick.

 “Where’s Owlman?”

Dick’s laugh is ugly and hostile in his own ears. Batman flinches like he’s been punched. Dick can’t imagine what it sounds like to Brucie—his name is still Bruce, right? Dick’s cup hits the ground, splattering into multicolor pieces like confetti. The friendly fire of coffee sprinkles the corner of his robe. The laughing cramps his stomach until it comes out as dry heaves. Dick points as if to say— _there! You’re here! I found you!_ He falls to his knees as he laughs sputter into something like hitches. He soaks the black liquid off the grimy linoleum with the corner of Owlman’s robe.

A pale man stares back up at him from the floor. He keeps scrubbing. Everything is so fucking dirty.

“Are you all right?” The voice rings like tinnitus in his ears. His enemies could never shake him. The appearance of mirror Owlman shreds him to pieces without so much as uttering a word. His stomach is knotted against the rising bile.

“Just fucking peachy.” Dick’s legs are unsteady as he stands up. He licks his dry lips before crushing his raw hands in his pockets. “You want coffee? You take it black, right?”

“Dick—“

“Don’t.” Dick’s nails dig into his palm to stop himself from taking the belt of his robe and crushing the bat’s windpipe. His fingers itch for red vengeance. “You want coffee or not?”

Bruce watches him like he’s a lion on some boring ass nature channel. Dick gets antsy enough to throw in the towel before: “Yes.”

Dick nods and  goes through the door. His hands are shaking, causing a miniature tsunami in the small paper cup. He adds five Splenda’s—Owlman’s count of choice and carries the cup back to the door. Dick stops himself from signing the cross before punching in the code.

Batman’s sitting with his back against the metal pipes serving as the headboard now—Dick wonders if he gave the bat too much leeway with the length of the cuffs—ink black hair pushed back to reveal the valleys of his sharp cheekbones and his punch-drunk nose. A red cloud of a bruise floats across the jut of his jaw. Dick’s stomach twinges with guilt. Bruce’s eyes aren’t as bat shit’s as Owlman’s though they’re blank with the same television static blue. The bat’s tight chest is decorated in serpentine keloids and a patchwork of bruises and scars, some looking older than Dick was. Bruce’s knee is stretched onto the bed in a straight line. The bat’s left arm is push into true.

“Coffee’s here.” Dick moves toward him. He stops just out of the bat’s reach. “Don’t try to grab me or anything. We won’t be friends anymore if you do, cool?”

Bruce nods. Dick closes in and hands over the paper cup. Bruce takes it with another nod and doesn’t hesitate to sip it. Why would he? If Dick wanted him dead, it would be so by now.

Bruce deposits the paper cup on the unsure card table masquerading as a nightstand. He watches Dick with a cold indifference Dick knows all too well. “What now?”

Dick sits in the cracked lawn chair next to the creaking bed and purses his lips. “Good question.” His brain buzzes with indistinct static. It’s obvious to the bat he’s winging it as he goes. There’s no use in pretending otherwise. It’s too late to take him to the boss. It’s keep him here, let him go or cause his red ruin. The latter had been kicking around in his head since the whole ordeal began. He couldn’t bring himself to draw final blood—not until he had something. He doesn’t know what. All he knows is he needs it now.

Dick's hand is resting on Bruce’s firm thigh again. The bat gave no indication he felt it at all.

“What do you think?” Dick asked as he placed his hands in his own lap, not sure what to do with them.

Batman’s eyes harden. “Do you want to know why I’m here?”

“If you think it’ll help your case.”

“Ultraman’s scientist has constructed a machine. It’s a threat to all—“

Dick doubles over laughing. There’s always a threat. Always some danger that doesn’t affect his life one way or another. At the end of the day he’ll always be Owlman’s toy soldier.

“Wow, I don’t care.”

“Look, Dick—“

“Talon. You call me Talon.”

“Talon.” Bruce says it like a question he doesn’t want to know the answer to. “Talon it’s not about you. It’s about the fabric of the universe—existence as we know it. Trillions of people will—“

“You got a hearing problem? I. Don’t. Care.” Bruce shuts up. Dick gets to his feet, fighting the urge to pace. He stops watching the bat’s blank face. He’s not used to seeing Owlman speechless. “I don’t care about this bullet ridden rat motel we call a city. I don’t care about the sinners in it. I don’t give a fuck about myself.” The bat sits as still as a statue, his eyes never leaving Dick. “So what if someone wants to bring the whole system down? Let them—if they’re unsuccessful, more power to you.” His stomach cramps when the laughter bubbles up again. “Not that it matters. There’s probably another you and me somewhere in the expanse of the galaxy—probably bowling or something right now.”

A flicker of emotion crosses the bat’s face like a flash of lighting. It’s gone just as quickly. The expression whispered ‘what have you seen?’ Dick clenches his fist.

 “If you feel this way, let me go. If you don’t care—let me stop it.”

Dick sinks back into the lawn chair. “I’m not letting you go.”

Bruce squints his eyes. “Robin—“

“Because I hate you.” _Because I love you._

To his credit, Bruce doesn’t ask why. He can obviously see it written in the knot of scars littering most of Dick's body. In the limp in the way he walks. In the missing molar when Dick smiles too wide. The burning hatred and desire for Owlman is strong enough to override his senses and bleed into other universes. His head is telling him this is batman, an innocent who never laid a finger on him. Who probably raised him like father’s should somewhere over the rainbow. His trick heart tells him it’s Owlman. The man who just three days ago broke all of Dick’s fingers to test a new healing agent. The man he’d spied on in the shower last weekend.

“I’m going to be punished for sins I didn’t commit.”

Dick smirks, fingernails cutting into the flesh of his palm. “The shoe fits, doesn’t it?”


End file.
